The bombs are falling tonight.
These explosions roar
(But only bursting vacuums)
twisting stomachs in darts
like cracking knuckles, or bones
snapping under the pressure –
now a flash-white spasm.
Or is this the sound of all the beams breaking
in this perpetual construction site?
(Just a foreshadowing and a remnant)
A bellowed refusal to drown out the sun.
Their revolution is now. All buildings
yearn for ivy. Gravel. Renewal. Boom.
Lightning like rapture.
This thunder I think could spell the end.
Zues and Sango, praise and heal –
(We’re only ordinary men.)
It is death, that is clear. With fire and zeal,
war on the overgrown plains yells in baritone,
lumbering heavy with extinction.
We cower, for this is the way. We know
the world ends – Bang.
But no, thunder never touched the ground.
Bombs far-gone and beams strong.
(It’s only just a sound.)
Sterile without falling rain on soft soil
like a pot to overflow one day
as we watch some other catastrophe
like our eyes as we drift